


aetherium

by mortalitasi



Series: chasing starlight [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Family, Gen, gen - Freeform, lots of backstory yeha aren't you lucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 11:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14043630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortalitasi/pseuds/mortalitasi
Summary: Some come into adventuring by way of luck, or accident.Some are simplybornto it.





	1. alone

**Author's Note:**

> ~*oooh, exposition!*~

A small raen stands before a sliding door. Her tiny feet are unshod. Her horns, barely grown.  
  
“Mama,” she says in a shy voice to the door, “take me with you.”  
  
The shadow on the other side shifts. “We have already discussed this, little one. It would not be safe.”  
  
She squeezes the ragged goat doll in her hands. “Please?”  
  
“We have already said no,” says her mother’s voice. “The wards will be removed upon our return. We will only be some hours. Be good.”  
  
“Mama,” she repeats, and then hears the dreaded sound of fading footsteps. “Mama!”  
  
No answer. Just silence. They always leave her behind when they go down the mountainside to the trading post—here in their shared room, where there are no windows and no toys. She only has one—a toy—her precious aldgoat Toto, worn and limp, sewn together from fabric, with eyes of lacquered pebbles and flopping horns. The room itself is bare; there are two futons for Mama and Papa each, and a smaller one for her. They tell her she’ll get her own room when she’s old enough to help them build it.  
  
It doesn’t get as cold inside as it does outside, because of Mama’s magic. She can sit and practice her spells here comfortably, but she would rather be in the snow than on her futon, and she would rather be climbing rocks than waiting for the wards to be dissolved so she can open the door again.  
  
She resigns herself to sitting, crossing her legs, looking at quiet Toto in her hands. If only he could talk and play.  
  
Mama’s futon smells of mountain flowers and sweet powder. She falls asleep holding Toto to her heart.


	2. legacy

Mama has her learning reagents and memorizing herblore by the time she is seven.  
  
It starts one stormy evening, and never stops. She is taught to read, and to write, even though the language the battered books Mama brought with her from the place she lived in before is strange to her. They speak only Auri in the house, and her hand is caned if she lets a foreign word slip in her absentmindedness. She is quick to begin keeping counsel to herself. It makes her quiet, but it is not as though she had someone to talk to beforehand, anyhow.  
  
Still, she loves them, Mama and Papa, as studious and stern as they are, for she would be nothing without them. They teach her about how the world works—that wide world she hasn’t seen much of—and she knows she’ll need the knowledge wherever she goes later on.  
  
While they sleep in their futons, breathing softly, she watches the sun come up over the mountains, painting the cloudless sky pink and orange and red. She watches everything, really, drinking in every detail and relation laid out for her observation: she watches the people in the village and the reclusive animals that skirt around their settlement, the brave winter birds that fly from the mountain when the snows are high, and things that were not obvious to her before become clear. Mama and Papa are frightened, and nature is relentless. The sun always rises, and the mountain has a mind of its own. These are all certainties of life, like the blue of the sky or the flow of water.  
  
She becomes aware of her own intelligence the day she realizes no one in the village asks the questions she does—or wants what she wants. Not even world-weary Papa, tall and noble, wants to leave the safety of the city carved into the heart of the mountain. There aren’t many here, so half of the place is left uninhabited, and she wanders the place after her lessons are done, as though its ghosts will come alive and tell her about the times when Yamakage was full of raen. What were they like? Did they, too, hide from anything they thought dangerously different?  
  
Mama has told her the story so many times that she knows the words by heart. Before the people of the Dawn Father settled themselves amongst the strange races of the mainland, mingling with the hyur and their warlords, they had been a nation of their own, with their own language and customs and magics. They had their own territories and did not fight the battles of men.  
  
The lands beyond the mountain are full of war, and raen hate war more than anything else. And when war had come to their doorstep, Mama and Papa had left the seaside city of their birth, taking with them their likeminded fellows, and made the pilgrimage to Yamakage. The journey had been long and difficult, and many had died en route—a distant nightmare she will never know—and when they had arrived, the ancient city had been nigh uninhabitable. But they had a place of their own, away from the strife and cruelty of fearmongers, and it had been what they wanted.  
  
She’d been born a day after they arrived, not a moment too soon. The other women had helped carry Mama up the slope and into the city, since she hadn’t been able to stand for the pain. Yamakage, the sanctuary in the stone, is all Sekka has ever known.  
  
“Sekka,” Mama’s voice says. She is jolted back into the present, where they are sitting on the large reed mat in the center of the common room, Mama’s ingredients spread out all around them. The mortar in her lap is heavy, and her mother’s grey eyes are disapproving. “I will not have you poisoning a patient because you are driven to distraction during sessions.”  
  
“I apologize,” she murmurs, looking down at the paste she has created with her pestle. “I was only thinking.”  
  
Mama’s expression softens, and not for the first time, Sekka understands why she was named the way she was. Kawako—a river child, mutable, fluid, the rapids of her mood always changing, flowing seamlessly into one another. It can be exhausting, the way Mama moves from rigid irritation to tender understanding. These qualities make her a relentless teacher, one that demands nothing less than the absolute best, whatever your absolute best may be at any given time.  
  
“You are a curious girl,” Kawako says, reaching out to brush a pale strand of hair out of Sekka’s face. “So very much like me, at your age. Inquisitive and bright. Shall we finish the poultices?”  
  
That makes her smile, even just a little, as she nods. Mama’s compliments are hard-won.  
  
They work in silence for the rest of the remaining time.


	3. birthright

She is six months into being twelve when Papa builds the extension to the house, giving her a room to herself.  
  
It’s not as bare as the bedroom she’s been sleeping in since she was born—she takes care to make sure she brings flowers in for the sill, and that the shelves of her little bookcase are lined with pretty pebbles she finds on her sojourns outside; Mama is not entirely happy with the frivolity of it all, but she is too diligent of a daughter for any reprimand to truly hold. She is dedicated to her studies despite her youth, and her solitary nature keeps her from complaining overmuch about the lack of children her age. These are all things she knows, even as a youngster, and she draws them about her like a shield, building a barrier that no critique can breach.  
  
Mama worries that she will not be able to sleep alone, but she proves that concern unfounded. She leaves Toto by her pillow now, because the sight of him comforts her, though she does not need to hold him any longer.  
  
The day her first blood comes, Mama braids her hair, gives her a crown of snowbells, kisses her forehead, and lets her see herself in the reflection of an old mirror kept in the common room wardrobe. Kawako runs a hand over her milky-blue plaits, catching her narrow chin between two fingers.  
  
“Every day you grow more and more into her likeness,” Kawako says, expression unreadable.  
  
She blinks. “Who?”  
  
“My mother,” Kawako admits. She brushes Sekka’s cheek with the back of her knuckles. “You are her mirror image. She was known for her strange beauty—and her eyes. Even among us raen, this color is rare.”  
  
Sekka stares at the girl in the mirror, standing beside her lovely mother. It’s true—she and Mama have never really looked alike. Where she is pale, Kawako is dark. Mama’s hair is the tone of burnished steel, her eyes clear like ice; even her scales reflect light that way, with their shimmering gradient of silver. In comparison, she is rather static. At least, that is what she believes. Mama runs a loving touch over one of her eyelids, smiling softly at the prickle of white eyelashes.  
  
“Like quartz, or sakura blossoms,” Kawako says, nodding at their reflections. “See?”  
  
“I suppose,” Sekka murmurs. No one has likened any of her features to either before. She always thought of her eyes as just pink. No gems—no flowers. Just… pink.  
  
Kawako chuckles. “Come. Let us show your father.”  
  
Sekka stands as Kawako shuts the doors to the wardrobe. “You never speak of her,” she says, and Kawako freezes mid-gesture.  
  
“No,” Mama says after a pause. “I do not.”  
  
And they leave it at that.


	4. questions

The older she gets, the more she realizes just how respected Papa is in their community.  
  
The others look to him for guidance and advice. He is the first to be consulted when a structure caves in or supplies are later than expected. The villagers confide in him about their lives and sorrows, their joys and hopes, and it is with a growing sense of dread that she comes to accept they probably consider him their leader. It isn’t difficult at all to see why they would: he is commanding in more than just appearance, silent and strict, but fair, objective and vigilant. He stands a good half-head above most of the men in Yamakage, broad-shouldered and long of stride. He is built like a warrior, though he is repulsed by the song of weaponry.  
  
She can see more of herself in him than she does in Mama. As she eats her dinner, she watches him pore over a scroll in the common room, cross-legged and utterly focused, the long tail of his white hair hanging down his back. She wonders how he came to the decision to bring them all here, so far away from… everything. And everyone. What did he leave behind?  
  
There is not much she can profess to know. Mama and Papa do not mention their parents. They do not mention what it was like for either of them before Yamakage. They do not mention Doma more than they must, and seem content to live as though the world ends at the foot of the mountain. Her only true clue is the family name—Torioi—if that was not manufactured upon their arrival in Yamakage. Papa certainly lives up to its meaning regardless. Every anzu and falcon in their rookery has known the warmth of his compassion and the iron spine he displays when demanding obedience.  
  
“Is there something you wish to ask of me, daughter?” he says, without even looking up from his scroll.  
  
“Nothing that can be answered while your attention is divided,” she replies honestly. She sits back on her cushion and attends to the last of her rice.  
  
He glances at her. The warm gold-grey of his skin makes his yellow eyes look like chips of citrine. “Very well. Later, then?”  
  
She nods, and he goes back to his work.  
  
‘Later’ turns out to be after she has put away the bowls and cleaned away the evidence of supper from the low table in the common room; Papa is still wading through the scroll, which has multiplied since the last time she checked—there are now at least two on his left and a few more on his right. They seem like inventory reports. She does not envy his duties in the least. When she returns to the common room for the final time to settle in for the rest of the evening, he has put the scrolls aside and seems to be waiting for her, hands folded into the long sleeves of his dark kimono.  
  
“Papa?” she says, a little hesitant.  
  
“It seemed as though you wanted to speak with me,” he clarifies. One imperious eyebrow arches at her. “Or was I reading your intention wrongly?”  
  
Her mouth is dry. “No,” Sekka tells him. “You did not. I simply… I thought you had forgotten.”  
  
He smirks, one corner of his mouth crooked up—he has a way of making the most minimal of actions appear incredibly sardonic. “Have you known me to ever forget anything?”  
  
“I have not,” she says, maybe more regretfully than she desired. One can never rely on Papa’s memory failing him: he has a mind like a steel trap.  
  
“Will you be seated?” he asks, his expression losing its edge. “If there is aught troubling you, I would have you trust me with it.”  
  
She sinks into her customary cushion. “It is nothing truly worrying. I have—some questions. About…”  
  
“About…?” he prompts patiently.  
  
“I want to know more of how our trading arrangement with the xaela operates,” she blurts all at once, and the words do not stop when they’ve started. “I want to know more about where I—about where you and Mama are from. I want to help you, however I can—I just want to learn. How much more of the city lies unexplored? How can you be certain our suppliers will appear at the appointed dates?” She casts her gaze down at her folded hands, her voice lowering to an uncertain murmur. “We are so few. Do you—do you never… feel forlorn?”  
  
There is a long silence, and for a terrifying, petrifying moment, she thinks she has upset him. Overstepped her boundaries. Suddenly, she cannot bear to look down anymore, and lifts her gaze to his. The contemplative—almost melancholy—set of his features gives her pause.  
  
“You are nearing your seventeenth winter,” he begins, slowly. “I should not be shaken by your curiosity. But in my mind, you are ever the babe in your mother’s arms. Quiet and observant. Red-faced. And so tiny.” A small, genuine smile overcomes his expression. “You did not squall even half as much as the rest of them. It seems as though that were yesterday…”  
  
She has no idea what to say. “Papa…”  
  
He clears his throat. “It is of no import. I will answer your questions. It is time you learned.”  
  
She could not have stopped the beaming grin that causes. The joy he has just given her is priceless. “Thank you! Thank you,” she says, feeling as though her heart will burst.  
  
Papa reaches out, ducking her under the chin with a gentle touch. “You gladden my heart with your delight. Come, let us make some tea. We have much to discuss.”  
  
She is so excited she nearly drops the cups.


	5. conscious

Mama tries—very valiantly—to teach her the way of the healing magicks, how to empty her mind and channel the energies of purity outward. She can handle the most middling of injuries, tiny cuts and scrapes, but the other complexities of spells Mama uses escape her. She is too focused, has too innate a sense of self (that must be a more cordial way of telling someone they are too selfish)—it is a state of being inherently incompatible with the impersonal nature of healing. Any nursing she will be doing will have to involve poultices and herbs. She is not overjoyed by the increase in alchemical studies, but handles it with the usual measure of acceptance due of a necessary evil.  
  
The destructive aspects of magic, however—they appear to her readily. Earth is unwieldy and sometimes inelegant, and it does not always listen, due to its close ties with the kinder side of magic; fire is obedient, but explosive, and the anger she has to summon to create the intensity she wants with it exhausts her, and so it is not often her first choice. Air is unwieldy and flighty, and far too mischievous for her liking. She does not call on it with any sort of frequency. Water is terrible in the sense that it has so much utility, and it is the first element she learns to cast with—her first true friend, perhaps.  
  
From water springs sister lightning, brittle and swift, and one of her favorites. It chirps and burns and sparks, air coalesced into a more tolerable form, so bright and brisk. She practices with it in the vegetable patches, scaring away vermin with the zap and pop of improvised spells. If she singes her own eyebrows at some point during one of these numerous attempts, it is neither remarked upon nor questioned (and for that, she is grateful).  
  
Ice is the last she develops, but it is the one that comes to her most naturally. It is not as loose as its mother, water, and not so uncontainable as fire. It is the beautiful symmetry of earth without its bulk, the whimsy of air without the infuriating rebelliousness. She finds that the lethal delicacy of ice suits her tastes like nothing else. Rather than enduring the arduous process of drawing water from her surroundings, she simply has to command it to freeze. It is almost effortless, and the discovery makes her giddy.  
  
Mama is no sorcerer, though she is a skilled healer, and all the guidance she can offer is technical—scrolls and educated guesses, well-meaning warnings and a cautionary tale or two. She cannot be thrilled her only daughter is more suited to the battlefield than the infirmary, but there is no changing it.  
  
She never tells her mother that if anyone dared to try harming them, she would not hesitate to use everything she has learned.


	6. twilight

The rookery is her choice of retreat.  
  
She scrambles over the rocks to the topmost collection of roosts, finding a patch bare of droppings, sits herself down, and cries every angry tear she wouldn’t let slip in front of Papa. She cries, and beats her fists against her knees, and cries more, shoulders heaving, and she is glad that the only witness to her childish, raging grief is Hayate, the silver falcon who is Papa’s favorite above all. He is perched on the stone closest to her, watching her with inquisitive amber eyes, his grey plumage ruffling in the breeze.  
  
“I am old enough!” she had said to Papa, losing her temper in a rare fit of emotion. “I am old enough and I have never left this place—never so much as set foot anywhere else—I _deserve_ —”  
  
“Your freedoms are privileges—they are _earned_ , and they can be _revoked,”_ Papa had yelled back, the first time she had ever known him to raise his voice. “You have not left because there is no reason for you to leave, and because the world beyond the mountain is not your concern.”  
  
“You cannot keep me here forever!”  
  
“The depth of your ingratitude shames me,” he’d hissed at her, not stopping when she had flinched away from him. “Your mother and I have kept you safe, sheltered, spared you from pains you would have known as well as breath and blood, and you _shame_ us this way.”  
  
She had trembled, biting her lip, fingers losing feeling. “Is that not a parent’s calling? You make it sound burdensome. Would you cast me from your affections for—for asking to see more?”  
  
“I see now that we have been remiss in our education of you,” Papa had said, so tired and disappointed and finished that it shriveled her heart in her breast. “You have grown complacent—you have forgotten your duties, and what is required of you. You are not an adventurer, no roving ruffian or inquisitor. You will _never_ be. This discussion is finished.”  
  
And so it had been.  
  
She’d fled from their home, quick to withdraw, ignoring Mama’s pleas, only able to focus on the roiling anger, the stinging hurt—she loves them, _loves_ them, obeys them, works twice as hard and goes thrice as far as any; she trusts them, admires them, hoping that somehow what she’s done, how good she’s been, will make up for the vast difference between her desires and theirs. Is it simply nature for discord to rule between children and their parents, to constantly erupt no matter the effort afforded? Or is it simply in _her_ nature for there to be discord in everything she does?  
  
What must be altered for this horrid emptiness to go away?  
  
Why _can’t_ she be happy here, amidst her people, by her parents’ side, away from the strife Mama and Papa are so sure lives outside of Yamakage?  
  
It must be a fault of her own—some innate flaw in her design that does not allow her the quiet contentment that seems to come naturally to her fellows. That is the only explanation.  
  
Weeping is an ugly thing, and she does not like to do it more than she must, but now it seems like the tears will not stop. She never knew words could deal such wounds, so fearful that they feel mortal. Her mind says there has been no betrayal, but her heart screams the opposite.  
  
When she’s close to being unable to breathe for the force of her sobs, Hayate’s chilly beak touches her on the thigh. She startles, looking up into his beautiful aquiline face, searching his glassy stare for some miraculous answer. She finds none. The bird is four times her size, with a wingspan that could easily engulf her, but for something so cruel, so large, so delicate—he is so gentle. She strokes at the downy feathers over his keel, feeling them slip between her fingers like liquid silk, sniffling like a babe when he lowers his head to preen at her hair. He is trying to comfort her, in his own way, the only way he knows how.  
  
“It isn’t fair,” she whispers to him, as he carefully moves tear-stuck strands of her hair from her temples with the razorpoint of his beak.  
  
He chirps, short little trills of sound, nestling the curve of his face against her neck. She clutches at him, taking solace in his presence, wondering if she’ll ever be at peace again.


	7. resolution

She spends her nineteenth birthday alone.  
  
She watches the sun go up over Yamakage, sitting swaddled in furs at the topmost part of the aerie with Hayate’s wing curled over her shoulder. They don’t question it if she is gone overnight any longer—home has grown smaller and smaller these last few years, wooden walls pressing in.  
  
She casts off the furs—they are more for comfort than warmth, anyway—standing while Hayate blinks against the morning light.  
  
Far beyond to the south and east she can see the glittering waters of The One River, stretching across the flat expanse of the Steppe; she’s read about the sea of grass to the south, the cradle of the Nhaama, sacred to the xaela, and the forested reaches of the Fanged Crescent, green and lush, growing on verdant slopes, over and alongside ancient ruins. In her childhood it was enough to dream about getting to see them—to only look at the ink on the parchment and try to picture what it would feel like to run her hands over the longrass of the plains—but now she wants to make that wisp of a dream a reality.  
  
The time for _imagining_ is over.  
  
“Take me flying,” she tells Hayate, brushing her hand along his spine.  
  
He warbles at her, deep in his throat, and she climbs onto his back, her legs hugging his sides.  
  
Her stomach drops when he guides them over the ledge; the sheer force of the wind tearing past her face makes her laugh, once, shortly, and he does a little flourish, just for her benefit. She knows he will not come with her when the time comes—Hayate is fulfilled as king of the aerie, and he loves the mountains too dearly to go anywhere else.  
  
There will be a moment when she will have to say goodbye: to him, and to everything she has called her world for her entire life. But that moment is not today.  
  
Today she will pretend she can touch the clouds, that she is the one with wings—and that she will never have to touch ground again.


End file.
